She wants me dead.
And somewhere in this forsaken forest, she’s being controlled by someone who brought her back specifically to destroy everything I am.
I should return to the fortress. Should tell my brothers what’s happening, rally the Brotherhood, plan a response. That’s what any sane dragon would do.
Instead, I follow her into the dark.
Because even after years of death and grief and guilt that’s carved itself into my soul, I’d rather die by her hand than let anyone else hurt her again.
The woman I loved has come back from the dead to kill me.
And I’ve never been more grateful to be alive.
THREE
NASYRA
THREE WEEKS EARLIER
Iwake screaming.
Cold stone beneath my back. Darkness pressing against my eyes. My lungs burn as I gasp for air that tastes of ash and old blood, and my hands—my hands are clawing at my chest, searching for a wound that isn’t there.
There should be a wound. I remember the blade. Remember the blood. Remember?—
“Easy.” A voice, smooth and calm, cuts through my panic. “You’re safe now.”
Light flares. Soft, flickering, casting long shadows across walls of black stone. A face swims into view above me—beautiful in a cold way, with hair dark as ink and eyes the color of bruised twilight.
“Who—“ My voice comes out as a rasp, my throat raw as if I’ve been screaming for hours. Days. Centuries. “Where am I?”
“Somewhere safe.” The stranger kneels beside me, his movements deliberate and graceful. He’s dressed in dark silks, silver jewelry glinting at his throat and wrists. “My name is Lakhu. I’m the one who brought you back.”
Brought me back. The words don’t make sense. I push myself upright, my arms trembling with the effort, and look down atmy body. Pale skin. Black hair tangled around my shoulders. A simple white shift that I don’t recognize.
No wound. No blood. No evidence of what I know happened to me.
“I died.” The words come out flat. Statement, not question. “I remember dying.”
“You did.” Lakhu’s expression is sympathetic. Careful. “Three hundred years ago. I’m sorry—I know this must be overwhelming.”
Three centuries.
The number doesn’t compute. Can’t compute. I open my mouth to argue, to demand explanations, but all that comes out is a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
Lakhu waits. Patient. Understanding. When I finally find words, he answers every question with the same measured calm. Explains resurrection magic. Explains the artifact that made it possible. Explains that the world has changed beyond recognition while I slept in death’s embrace.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t push. Just sits beside me on that cold stone floor and helps me understand.
I should be grateful. I am grateful.
But something in his patience feels practiced. Calculated. Like a hunter waiting for prey to lower its guard.
One week later
The rectangular thing squeals at me.
I stumble backward, shadow-flame erupting from my palms before I can stop it. The dark fire scorches the wall behind me, leaving a blackened streak across stone that’s already seen better days.
